Untitled
by Ravenrising
Summary: One-shot, Molly introspective. "Molly Hooper still loves Sherlock Holmes and sometimes she thinks she prefers the sunshine to the rain."


I wrote this in thirty minutes last night. Not entirely happy with it, but okay with it enough to post it. I didn't know this would be a Molly introspective, but my brain decided to go that route (which seems to happen every time). It was originally going to be a drabble based on the last scene-inspired by alicexz's lovely artwork (her "You've always mattered" piece). Mostly Molly, with a dash of Sherlolly thrown in.

Please read and review!

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It was raining tonight. It had not been raining when she went in for an afternoon shift at St. Bart's despite dark, ominous clouds and she had held hope that it would stave off until she was ensconced in her flat. Alas, it was not to be. It was not a particularly heavy rain, but it was quite steady.

It was quite late now, the clock just having moved beyond the one a.m. hour. She had pulled a bit of overtime, trying to catch up on the backlog from the day shift-yet again. The streets were fairly empty, due to a combination of the precipitation and the later hour.

She heaves a sigh as she felt a trickle of rainwater sliding down behind her ear. She had left her umbrella at home, leaning against the wall right next to the door. It was foolish and whimsical and so Molly to leave it sitting there-a bit of hope that just maybe it would not rain today.

Molly has always had a bit of a love/hate relationship with the rain. She can remember evenings as a child when her beloved father would build a robust fire and they would sip tea and speak of their day. She can recall how the rain would rise and then peter out-almost as if it were a symphony composed just for the two of them.

Molly pauses for a moment and tilts her head back.

Without planning to, she smiles a bit. It is a bit sad and she thinks briefly that she exhibits traits of her father without even meaning to, but it has a tinge of happiness to it. She misses her father, but the sharp knife that used to make up the absence of him has dulled a bit with time.

It was raining the day her father died. It was a thunderstorm then, at least in the beginning. She can remember sitting by his bedside gently holding his hand as his breaths shortened and he slipped in and out of sleep. She still has a vivid mental picture of how the lightening would strike and light up the room for a brief instant, casting harsh shadows across his face.

His last murmur was one of love and then...he was gone. It had seemed unfair then-and it still does a bit now-that the rain had stopped just after he passed.

Molly is unsure if she loves the rain more than she dislikes it. She prefers to think of those lovely nights as a young girl than of the thunderstorm that was present when her father left. It was much more in line with her personality to focus on the positive rather than the negative.

Molly wrapped her arms across her waist, hugging the salmon colored sweater tighter to her skin. She tilted her head down a bit more against the angle of raindrops trying to blur her vision.

Naturally, she had left a proper coat at home. The reason behind that was more due to forgetfulness as she rushed out the door than a vain hope.

She skirted around a puddle with a surprising amount of grace.

It was sunny when Sherlock left. He had been holed up in her flat for two months, planning and attempting to beat boredom at the same time. It occurred to her that John Watson might have the patience of a saint. The experiments and notes pinned to her walls had steadily overtaken the majority of her flat, steadily trickling out of the kitchen and into the sitting room.

She can just imagine the look of brief terror on her face when she stepped into the shower one early weekday morning and her toes slid across mold cultures. Needless to say, she drew up a set of rules in that very moment-rules that he still broke and she yelled at him for.

Still, she is not surprised when she thinks that she misses him.

The average temperature had warmed a bit by the time he vanished from London for parts unknown. He had planned on slipping away before she had awoken for the day, but he hadn't quite made it.

The parting was less awkward then she had imagined, but she supposes that was because they had fallen into a comfortable territory in those two months. They learned a lot of each other in those two months and could honestly say they were friends.

He thanked her for all her help and for hiding him away, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear as he did so. She told him to come home as soon as he could, not entirely sure if she meant London in general, to Baker St. or to her. It did not really matter as he sort of smiled and leaned down to deliver a soft kiss that spoke of future potential and her eyes fluttered closed. She can remember the warmth of the sun on her skin as it poured in through the sitting room window.

Molly Hooper still loves Sherlock Holmes and sometimes she thinks she prefers the sunshine to the rain.

The text messages between them were somewhat steady. His number consistently changed so she never bothered to save any particular one. Sometimes they were short, mostly a one line of his continued existence. Other times he would mention inane anecdotes from his formative years. In return, she would tell him of how things progressed-or stagnated-in London. That John was a wreck who had consistent dark under eyes; that Greg Lestrade had been reinstated; Mrs. Hudson would invite her over for tea, or that Mycroft would on occasion send her ridiculous coded messages regarding the state of things.

It had been nine months since she had laid eyes on Sherlock Holmes.

Due to the workings of the universe, precisely as she thought of how much she truly missed him, she collides with a solid mass.

Her head was still tilted down, but it was only an instant and she knew. The distinct scent of him settles around her and her hands come up to grasp at the lapels of his suit jacket.

She raises her head to meet his eyes. He has not changed at all. He has a bit of mischief in his eyes and the corner of his lips starting to form a rogue smirk. Rain was dripping off the ends of his hair.

"Molly Hooper," he murmurs. "You left your umbrella at home, yet again. As well as your coat."

His arms had come around her by then while clutching the edges of his iconic Belstaff coat. His left arm wrapped around her back, comforting and warding off the chill of rain. His right arm was raised above her, diverting the rain from her eyes and cocooning them just a little.

"Sherlock Holmes," she replies. She laughs a bit then, ecstatic at the possibilities.

"Welcome home. Are we raising you from the dead?" she inquires.

She knows the small amount of water sliding down her face would taste of salt. With no discussion necessary, she lifts herself on to the tips of her toes as he stoops just a bit and bends his head so their lips can meet.

If she had not been so focused, she might have noticed the rain was starting to stop.


End file.
